


Deep Dive

by dianasilverman



Series: Lethal Speculation [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Post-Career of Evil, Written Pre-Lethal White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 17:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianasilverman/pseuds/dianasilverman
Summary: Alone in London after Robin's wedding, Cormoran tries to be honest with himself.





	Deep Dive

All of the words getting trapped in my lungs, heavy like a stone.  
Alice Merton, "Lash Out"

The first day of Robin's honeymoon was just beginning when London rose out of the night ahead of Strike. Ancient and forbidding though it was, crouched in the fog, the city seemed to be welcoming him home. Its millions of hazy lights promised winding alleyways, smoky little cafes at dawn, and the kind of solitude that could only come from being surrounded by teeming masses. He sighed with relief at the sight. Yorkshire, for all its wild beauty, was too empty and unknown. The idea of returning to his familiar haunts soothed his frayed nerves.

He was a man beaten down and exhausted. The past few days had worn him through until there was little left besides the bruised and battered hulk of a body in the passenger seat. Only his white knuckled grip on the door handle gave away sentience. He wasn't comfortable in vehicles under the best of circumstances, and Shanker's driving wasn't helping.

"You awake there, Bunsen?", Shanker asked, as though prompted by having been thought of unkindly.

"Yeh", he grunted.

"I still don't understand what the fuck we drove up there for", the driver complained.

"You'll get your money", Strike replied, knowing full well that wasn't what was being insinuated.

"S'not the point", came the reply. Then a car hurtled out of the darkness, the speed of their motion making it seem frozen in place, and Shanker had to focus on driving.

He had promised Robin that he'd call her upon arriving in London. Seeing the first familiar signs ahead, he dug in his pocket for his phone, only to notice the time. With a twist in his gut, he scolded himself that it was definitely too early. This was, after all, her wedding night.

Exhaustion was quickly turning his normally analytical mind poetic. An old factory whipped by them in the night, its myriad chimneys and fire escapes rendering it craggy, and he was reminded viscerally of home.

Twelve-year-old Cormoran had been far more sedate than most of his classmates, his erratic childhood providing more than enough excitement. On wild September days like the one he was remembering, he had often been found inside, enjoying the temporary bliss of a reliable place to sleep, and the scent of Aunt Joan's baking becoming slightly singed in the kitchen. However, scruffy, ungainly, and foreign-sounding as he was, he had been in no position to turn down an invitation to go swimming from a gang of youths in the year ahead of him. He met them by the winding path to the beach, and was duly surprised when, jostling and whooping, they veered off towards the high cliffs on the outskirts of town instead. 

Immediately upon their arrival, the energy had shifted, becoming nervous instead of exuberant. Even the older ones who had done this before were intimidated by the sheer drop down to the roiling black water below. In the anticipatory silence, Cormoran had sensed his chance. Stepping forward to murmurs of approval, he made his way to the very edge, feeling cold grip him as though he were already in the waves. With the confidence of someone who had already known far worse fear, he breathed in, steadied himself, and jumped, throwing himself from the precipice with absolute commitment. For a second, he was weightless. Then, the icy water rushed up to meet him, pulling him down into its depths. He was unprepared for the feeling of nothingness below him, of the endless cold blackness on all sides. It was almost liberating, so, just for a moment, he had followed the current that was pulling him under until the sky overhead was just a pinprick. He had been suddenly desperate to know where the bottom was.

Picturing Robin, shining and tearful in her wedding dress was like that day, Strike thought morosely.

Dropped rather unceremoniously at the kerb outside his office, he leaned against a lamppost, searching the pocket of his Italian suit for a cigarette. It's light was blinding in the gloomy dawn. He found his phone, too. It was finally late enough to call her. The happy couple, he reasoned, were probably on their way to Heathrow by now. He kept all thoughts of them confined to itineraries, chaste and sterile.

“Robin’s phone, leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

Tinny though it was, her voice caused him another sick lurch. He consoled himself that she probably just hadn't answered due to matrimonial bliss. This thought was cold comfort.

"Just thought I'd check in like you asked", he rasped around another drag on his cigarette, "call me when you have time. And congratulations again. Love is...", but he couldn't articulate what it was, exactly. Time ran out with a beep.

The second and third days of Robin's honeymoon, as well as most of the first, came and went in a haze. Burned out as he was, Strike finally allowed himself time to sleep, justifying it as not being a concession, but a respite. His dreams were full of darkness and longing, but the rest did him good. He only left his bed once, on the second day, to prepare a small army's worth of eggs and toast, along with coffee that did nothing to prevent him falling back into bed after breakfast was finished. Just before he fell asleep, he remembered that he was still supposed to call Robin. He did not want to bother her, but reasoned that since his call had gone to voicemail another try was justified.

“Robin’s phone, leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

He rolled over and buried his head in his pillow.

By the fourth day, he could no longer pretend that he needed the rest. After a winding dream full of dark corridors and sickly smelling white roses, he forced himself up. Groaning, he checked his phone and noticed that it was just past two in the afternoon. There were no new messages from Robin. He was trying not to ascribe meaning to her silence.

At the wedding, she'd been radiantly animated, grilling him for details on the Laing case in between batting away questions about the registry from her mother, and snide comments from her new husband. She'd seemed so joyful that he'd wondered if he'd imagined the sadness he'd seen on her face in the church shortly before she'd noticed him. Then, he had chided himself for wondering, thinking of course she's happy, its her bloody wedding day, you idiot. After the issues with the registry were sorted, and a fellow accountant had distracted a disgruntled Matthew, they had finally been alone. She had sighed heavily, looked up at him, and crossed her arms over her chest expectantly.

"Come back."

"Alright."

He had grinned despite himself, and she had joined him. There were tears in her eyes, and for a moment he was braced for a hug. But she had stayed firmly back, either more aware of Matthew's disapproval than he had given her credit for, or else attuned to the crackling tension between them that he'd thought was all in his head.

"That was easier than I thought it would be", he had admitted.

"I'll spare you any groveling", she said magnanimously, then her eyes turned serious. "But we're going to have to talk about this. Promise?"

"I promise."

"And Cormoran...", she had started, gaze deep blue and fathomless, before trailing off. He had waited patiently for an ending that never came.

"When'll you be back, then?", he asked, despite being fully aware of the date, just to break the silence. She had startled a little, twisting her engagement ring.

"Monday two weeks from now", she said firmly.

It was just then that he had caught a glare from a quickly approaching Matthew. This had been as good a cue to leave as any.

"I'll see you then. Shanker's waiting." She had smirked at the mention of his driver. Her mouth looked impossibly soft in pink lipstick.

"See you then." The pause that followed was historic in its origins and weighty.

"You look..." It had been his turn to trail off. He did not know how describe her truthfully without giving away too much. She was a vision; long gold waves loose around her shoulders, draped in white satin that clung to every curve, and with those startlingly unreadable blue eyes. 'Like the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' he had thought, and then added wryly, 'and just married, too.'

"...nice."

She had laughed a little at the obvious inadequacy of the compliment. For a moment, she had looked like there was more she wanted to say, but Matthew had arrived, and she clearly thought better of it. A spark of hope announced its presence by dying in his chest. He had slipped into the crowd, revelers parting easily for the beaten man with the despairing scowl.

The power drill outside on Denmark Street started back up again, breaking his reverie. There was work to be done.

The next few days passed in a slow but steady grind. Files needed to be sorted, calls needed to be made, and, to his immense relief, a constant trickle of new clients needed to be helped. In the aftermath of the Shacklewell Ripper case, his business had taken on a level of infamy he was unfamiliar with. All of the new cases certainly boded well for paying the rent that month, but for every legitimate client who was willing to pay, he encountered two curiosity seekers. It was exhausting, but it kept his thoughts more or less grounded, for which he was grateful. Every day came without correspondence from Robin, but he reassured himself that she was probably just enjoying her honeymoon, a fact which he had trouble convincing himself to be happy about. Besides, she would be back. It was not like her to go back on her word. 'It's not like her to ignore your calls, either', he thought before he could stop himself. He resolved to stop calling and wait for her instead.

As the days wore on, work, which was usually his preferred solace, became ever less comforting. It was too shallow and transitory to distract him. Down the winding streets, waiting at platforms, and in dingy cafes he found, not peace, but quiet. Left alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but think of Robin.

Eventually, he resorted to calling her again. Waiting on a stiff park bench just after midnight for a suspect who was taking entirely too long to emerge from the hotel across the street, his resolve gave out. His mind was plagued with a nagging suspicion that something was terribly wrong, although he couldn't place exactly what it was. The memory of Roana Laing's sunny wedding photo clouded his thoughts. With a sick, sinking feeling, he dialed her number.

“Robin’s phone, leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

He both considered, and deliberately ignored the fact that this was his sixth unanswered call.

Across the street, his target strutted from the hotel, apparently thoroughly pleased with himself. Strike, snapping pictures under the guise of checking his mobile, noticed a familiarity in the man's step, although he was a complete stranger.

He suddenly knew with absolute certainty why she wasn't answering. Matthew had done something to Robin's phone. It was the only possible explanation. He could not imagine another scenario in which she would fail to answer, and fail to call him. Even if she was having a picture perfect honeymoon, her curiosity was such that she would need to know more about the Laing case than the little he'd been able to explain at the wedding. The inquisitive nature that made her such a good investigator would also mean that no amount of sand and sunshine would keep her away for this long. He saw her again as he'd seen her last, bright eyes shining, so beautiful and strong in her white dress with the long scar down her arm. 'That fucker.'

The idea of finding some way to reach out to Robin occurred to him. He could under no circumstances justify leaving her in the dark if he was right, and he knew he was. However, emails, internet searches, and calls to family were blunt instruments, subject to timing, miscommunication, and, depending on the level of Matthew's depravity, surveillance. He took no pleasure in the idea of telling her in person, but saw no alternative. At least she was coming back soon. He resolved that if she did not arrive in the office as planned, he would take any steps necessary to find her.

Lighting a cigarette, he started for the Tube, leg aching, stomach queasy, and head full of mutiny.

He wanted to count the days until her return, but stopped just short of doing so. The neat little Cornwall calendar above the stove in his flat seemed to be taunting him, perfect white squares begging to be crossed off in thick marker. He resisted its call. In this way, time slipped by him in a haze of cigarette smoke and toil until one day turned out to be the Sunday before the fateful Monday.

That morning he busied himself straightening the office, worried that she would find it out of order. The fact that she had known him to sleep on a camp bed behind his desk did not stop him from dusting, clearing out the bins, and replacing the stale biscuits that had been mouldering in the back of a cabinet. That afternoon was spent tracking Shanker to a seedy bar in order to pay his debts and solicit extralegal help. Shanker's chosen venue was far across town, down a bleak side street that smelled of onions. By the time Strike arrived, he was so glad to have found his old friend that the exorbitant sum he was expected to pay, both for the ride to Yorkshire, and the help with his current predicament, passed easily from his fingers. Only Shanker's prodding about Robin hurt him.

Feeling miscellaneously beleaguered, he made his way back towards Denmark Street through thick summer air that hinted of a storm to come. Around him, the city's shift was turning over. Families huddled together against the incoming darkness, pulling flighty children none too patiently towards waiting trains. They were replaced by partygoers, weekenders, and solo drinkers. The faces of the night shift varied by Tube stop and side street, from scruffy students, to bland professionals, to shifty eyed youths, but all took on the same general character, united by common purpose. The last rays of the setting sun were turning the haze crimson, and it was a good night for getting smashed. Strike, by contrast, promised himself that he would save the hard earned pittance that remained after his meeting with Shanker. Then, he exited his a stop early to go to the Tottenham. He didn't even bother justifying it. He'd been lying to himself far too often lately, and the time was coming to level up.

Pint in hand, he made his way to a table by the window that a young couple was just vacating. It was prime real estate at this time of night, but his heavy scowl secured it easily. Settled, he sipped his Doom Bar and waited for his thoughts to overtake him. Outside, London passed by him in a blur of light and colour, eight million souls fighting much like he was. This thought had lost its usual comfort. As he watched, the mouldering summer air solidified into a downpour. Passersby quickened their steps, rummaged in bags for umbrellas, and made their way towards the places that meant shelter. Strike, for his part, intended to wait out the storm exactly where he was.

His Doom Bar was only halfway gone when he found himself back in Cornwall, looking over a precipice to the roiling waves below. He steadied himself, afraid of what he might find to a degree that made him sure he already knew. Then, he breathed in, and jumped.

Insignificant details rose up to meet him first; colourful stationary, a trench coat, a replenished biscuit tin. The way she'd looked when he first saw her, perfect enough to throw all of his flaws into harsh contrast. Her hands, steady on the steering wheel of a hire car, ring glinting in the sun. A curtain of burnished gold hair brushed impatiently over one shoulder. The slip of green silk against pearly white skin. He'd loved a beautiful woman before, of course, but her beauty had been an instrument, steely and cold. Robin's was a fact, like the fact that she preferred Betty's Blend tea and had once owned a pony called Angus.

She was kind, too, and intelligent. Possessed with a fierce sense of justice, and the mind needed to pursue it. Nearly all of his success was owed to her, in one way or another. His business never would have been the same without her, and might never be again if things weren't sorted. She had also openly defied him, making him furious, but for reasons against which his fury crumbled.

Over his long career, he'd known many investigators, but no one with her natural instincts and savage kindness. No one who had been a victim and come out stronger. The crimes they investigated must feel incredibly personal, but that gave her urgency instead of fear.

A kaleidoscope of different Robins appeared before him; warm, funny, stubborn, loving, scarred, fiery, astute, idealistic. Blue eyes dark, shining, seeing right through him. Soft lips smiling wisely.

Alone in the pub with no one but the rain to bear witness, he dove ever deeper.

She pulled out the chair across from him, hair dark and wild from the rain, ring finger bare. Before either could confound the silence with words, he folded her hands in his, asking a silent question. She was trembling, but she met his eyes with absolute resolve. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and kissed her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, wrapping her long legs around his under the table. He cupped her jaw in his hands, skin soft against him. When she smiled, he felt the curve of her lips. The table between them disappeared, and she was pulling him down in soft sheets, kissing him more fiercely.

He did not know when the kiss of a married woman had become the thing he wanted most in the world, but there it was. He suspected that even this wasn't the bottom, but it was as deep as he was prepared to go that night.

From his youth on, he'd been learning to put up walls, keep secrets, shield himself from the kind of vulnerability that had almost always meant pain. After all, for every endless summer in Cornwall, there was a cold winter waiting in London. Over time, he'd learned to love the city, too. This particular secret would take all of his talent and resolve. The reward for keeping it would be maintaining his lonely status quo. Unless...

But if there was anything to the flickering hope, it was too remote to consider. For now, secrecy and friendship would have to do. It was better than losing her.

The torrent outside had turned to drizzle. He made his way back to Denmark Street through the dark and misty night.

He was already at his desk the next morning when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Sleeping had proven difficult that night, and he'd been roused early by the roadworks. Now, intensified by bad coffee and cigarettes, his heart hammered. He felt suddenly young again, years of protection stripped away until he was gangly and worried that anyone could see right through him. He scowled at his reflection to remind himself that years of skill were not lost overnight. The door closed behind her with a muted thud.

"Cormoran?", came a slightly breathless inquiry. Her voice was warmer than in her tinny voicemail greeting. His scowl deepened, and he willed his mirror image to get his shit together.

"In here."

"I've got the post. Nothing too gory for regular envelopes, at least." The off colour joke caused hairline fractures in his resolve.

She was, as always, more beautiful in person. The tropical sun had turned her freckled and suffused with colour. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her soft green blouse revealed her gorgeous curves. A wedding band joined her sapphire ring on the slender hand that brandished the mail in his general direction. She seemed older, too, eyes bottomless deep blue. As it had been at the wedding, her expression was unreadable.

'I love her.', he thought simply, then, 'Fuck.'

Back in Cornwall, he had never reached the ocean floor. But now he did.

He opened his mouth to speak, ready to lay himself bare and let her do what she would. It did not matter, suddenly, if everything was destroyed between them. He could not live with this secret.

"We need to talk", she said, stopping him before he could confess.


End file.
